Susanna Salk on Decorating Her Connecticut Lake House

The design writer explains how she fell in love with a house that was supposed to be a quick flip. Tour the house here.

I often imagine the reaction of the elderly woman who once owned our home — a 1953 Cape nestled between hills on Lake Waramaug in northwest Connecticut — if she were to visit it today. While she had let the house sag into a state of neglect during her many years here, she had also made sure that it served its purpose in pushing out the world with heavy curtains and carpets; dour, dark colors; and dusty collectibles lining every surface. From the moment I stepped inside, when my husband and I toured it with a real estate agent for a potential flip investment, I wanted to let the spectacular location seep in.

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Land trust trails shot up to stunning lake views on the hilltops just behind the apple orchard in the backyard. There was a dock at the end of the driveway that led to a gleaming body of water to sail or skate across at your seasonal whim. There was an old tennis court and plenty of flat land to slip in a pool. This house didn't have special bones longing to be uncovered. It was small, and its footprint could be changed only so much. But it made you feel like you were on vacation, even on a Monday in February.

Because of this, we bid on it, closed the deal, and called a contractor in rapid succession. Then I set to undo the many layers the previous homeowner had once so precisely laid down. The endless carpeting, in a color I can only describe as Punishing Putty, was ripped up to usher in wide-plank oak floors stained deep chocolate. The dark walls were bared and painted white. The new master bedroom was given the gift of lake vistas. An old sunporch made way for side-by-side slate patios, one for outdoor eating and the other for lounging by a small garden.

We gleefully checked off all the to-dos on our punch list with the efficiency of surgeons, and just five months later, the house was ready to be put back on the market.

And then the unexpected happened: We fell in love. We couldn't part with the house, even though we were torn about uprooting our lives from the 200-year-old Colonial we had lovingly restored in Roxbury, just two towns over, which we had lived in for the past 10 years (and thought we would live in forever).

I can only blame the intoxicating lake light — and seeing water on a daily basis. Walking to the mailbox to get your bills somehow feels better when a lake is in your sight. And so we moved, just 15 minutes but worlds away.

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The honeymoon period ended as soon as we realized how much smaller this new house really was. I had renovated for someone else to spend weekend getaways here. Now, the house had to work year-round for a family of four, with two boys quickly growing up. And so we had to renovate again, adding a real kitchen, an office, and a garage with a family room above.

I had initially decorated the house with cheerful, cheap stuff whose main purpose was to lure and endure renters. Now I had to decide what pieces from the old house came and what stuff in the new house had to leave. I didn't have the budget to completely start from scratch.

My design style had definitely changed since I had decorated the Roxbury house: My eye had been exposed to many great rooms created by a swath of talented designers from around the world. Whether I had worked with them on a photo shoot, socialized over cocktails in their living rooms, or ogled their aesthetic from books or magazine spreads, I loved how exhilarated and cozy their creations made me feel. I knew I had to play it less safe this time. So I laid myself open to inspiration however it followed and promised myself to act.

The striped settees that used to sit in front of the Roxbury fireplace looked too staid now. Would I be brave enough to envelop them in chartreuse ikat? "Do it," the fearless Los Angeles designer Mary McDonald seemed to whisper in my ear. And I listened. I spied a 1970s bar in a Chinese red color in the window of a consignment shop. Just looking at it made me feel tipsy. "Pull over now!" the late Vogue editor Diana Vreeland seemed to shout.

So I did. I painted our new mudroom tangerine after seeing a Miles Redd entry hall on Pinterest drenched in a bold, glossy deep blue. Miles's gutsy glamour gave me courage to go for the hue I didn't know I craved. While I was compiling a book on the socialite C.Z. Guest, her penchant for leopard constantly delighted me. So out went my husband's practical gray runners in the entry and down went the leopard sisal carpet. I promise you, I never come home disappointed.

Nothing is formally displayed here, yet everything has emotional value. Instead of traditional family portraits on the fireplace mantel, I have framed photographs one of my sons surprised me with for Christmas — images taken on family vacations in Paris and Miami. They are abstract — a curved leg of the Eiffel Tower, the turquoise pop of an Art Deco pool — but they make me remember everything about those trips with my beloveds.

The design masters have all taught me to edit out anything that doesn't really count and welcome in everything that tells a story. They've also taught me that the best houses reflect the invaluable moments accumulated along the way.

So what would I say to the former owner if she knocked? "Recognize the place? Come on in. Enjoy the view."

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